The Apostrophe Thief (18 page)

“Why,
thank you,
” he said sardonically.

Marian punched his shoulder. “And don't you get sarcastic with me! Dammit, I'm
trying
to make it right.”

He sighed, the anger beginning to drain out of him. “I know. It's just that when I didn't hear from you all day … well.” He cleared his throat. “Dinner, you say. Sonderman's all right? I'll drive.”

She eyed the car. “Where'd you get the Jag?”

“I stole it.”

“Holland, I never know when you're joking!”

“I'm joking. It's leased. Get in.”

Marian got in, thinking that
just once
she'd like to share a meal with him without some misunderstanding that had to be patched up.

12

This time when she woke up the next morning, he was not gone. He was awake, though, and watching her. Marian stretched luxuriously and smiled, not wanting to think about getting up just yet.

Holland touched her cheek. “All right?”

“Never better. I'd like to stay here all day.”

“Can you? I wouldn't mind that myself.”

She struggled to a sitting position. “You know I can't.”

He put his head down on her thigh. “Ah, but an occasional day of lolling about replenishes the soul, not to mention what it does for the body. If we get bored, I'm sure we can think of something to do.”

“I'm thinking of it already,” Marian said with a laugh, “but it's going to have to wait.” She eased her leg out from under his head and got up. “A skillion things to take care of today.”

Holland sighed dramatically. “I'll bet you never called in with blue flu in your life.”

“Once I did. One of those horrible days when nothing goes right—I burnt myself, I didn't have a clean shirt, my hair looked awful, I was late, and a pipe sprang a leak under the kitchen sink. So I called in sick.”

He got out of bed. “How did things go the next day?”

“Like clockwork.”

When they'd showered and dressed and were rummaging in the kitchen for something to eat, Holland said, “You don't have a CD player, do you?”

“Nope.”

“Nor a tape deck or stereo? What do you do for music?”

“There's the radio.” In truth, Marian didn't listen to music often.

“Pity. There's a new recording of
Don Giovanni
I'd like you to hear.”

Don Giovanni!
“Er, uh … why?”

“Why? For one thing, to provide you with a proper antidote to that travesty that assaulted your ears on Tuesday night.”

“Waltzing Brünnhilde? Gloria liked them.”

“Gloria has odd tastes at the best of times. What about you? Did you like it?”

Marian shrugged. “It was okay. Kind of hostile.”

“Well, Mozart isn't. Listener-friendly, in fact. I'll see what I can do about it.”

The coffee smelled done; Marian poured them each a cup. “What are you going to do today?”

“Buy computers for the office. Interview three operatives I'm thinking of hiring. Meet with the telephone people who are installing my lines. Look at office furniture. Go to the printer's. Set up an account with an office supply house.”

“Uh-huh. But what are you doing
after
lunch?”

“Making a dinner reservation for tonight.”

Marian shook her head. “I want to go to the Broadhurst tonight—I'll just grab a bite on the run. Why don't you meet me there, after the play? If you've got any strength left, after all the buying and meeting and interviewing.”

“I'll draw upon my hidden reserves. We'll go for a late supper. Ten, ten-thirty?”

“Thereabouts.”

It was after they'd gone their separate ways when it occurred to Marian that that was about the most
un
romantic morning-after imaginable. No declarations of undying love, no long lingering soulful looks, no was-it-good-for-you. She laughed aloud; the idea of Holland playing that game was hilarious. And she was grateful. If they could just keep it
comfortable
, with no role-playing or scene-acting … well, they just might end up not hating each other.

As hard as it was, she put Holland out of her mind and concentrated on the day's schedule. Today she was going to try to find out why one of the five articles missing from Ernie Nordstrom's Broadhurst cache was so special that it was worth killing for. She stopped by Midtown South long enough to report in to Captain Murtaugh and to collect some addresses.

Xandria Priest first.

Xandria-Holier-Than-Thou-Female-Priest, as Kelly called her, was still asleep when Marian got to her apartment. With difficulty she persuaded the young woman who'd answered the door to go wake her up. The young woman did, and then rushed off, muttering something about a cattle call. Another young woman wandered out of the kitchen holding a cup of coffee, smiled vaguely at Marian, and disappeared.

Finally the young woman she'd come to see wandered in—sleepy-eyed, tousle-haired, and wearing a robe; she still looked fresh-faced and pretty, in the way only the young can. She ducked her head and peered at Marian through long eyelashes. “You're Kelly's police friend.”

“Sergeant Larch, NYPD,” Marian said crisply. “I'd like to ask you a few questions, Ms Priest.”

“Xan. Call me Xan.”

“Er, Xan. You're aware that the man who burglarized the Broadhurst has been murdered, aren't you?”

“Yes, I
know,
” she said, now wide-eyed. “I've never had anything to do with a
murder
before!”

Funny way of putting it. “Did you ever meet Ernie Nordstrom? He was also known as Eddie Norris.”

“I never even
heard
of him. Did you get my diary back?”

“Yes, it was recovered. But a gown you wear—”

“Oh, I'm so
relieved
!” She smiled prettily. “I would just
hate
it if anyone read my diary. There are things in there, you know, about other people? I don't want to
embarrass
anyone.”

Marian remembered the innocuous nature of the diary with its compulsive listing of compliments and said, “I'm sure you don't. But it's one of your costumes I want to ask you about. A white gown—you wear it toward the end of the first act.”

“You've seen the play? What do you think?”

“I think it's terrific. The performances are terrific. Everything's great. Now, about this gown—”

“Yes, but …” Xandria Priest moistened her lips, leaned forward provocatively, and said breathily, “What did you think of
my
performance?”

Kelly had said Xandria didn't know how to communicate without flirting; Marian was beginning to see what she meant. “I think your performance was outstanding,” she said gently to the younger woman, “and you have a wonderful and exciting future ahead of you.”

That was what Xandria wanted to hear; she beamed at Marian and said, “Thank you. How kind of you to say so.”

Marian wondered if she'd bought a new diary to replace the stolen one; if she had, what Marian had just said was sure to be recorded for posterity. “Tell me about the white gown. Was there anything special about it?”

“Special? Well, it didn't drape exactly right in the back—”

“No, I mean was there anything that made it, well, valuable? More valuable than the other costumes, say?”

She looked puzzled. “It was just a dress.”

“Did anyone ever offer to buy it from you?”

“No, why should they?”

It was clear Xandria Priest knew nothing, but Marian made one more stab at it. “Do you collect theater memorabilia? Play programs, autographs, like that?”

Xandria's pretty mouth turned down. “That's for
fans
. I'm a
professional
.”

That says it all
, Marian thought. “Well, I guess that's it. Sorry I had to wake you up.”

“Um, how did you and Kelly meet?”

“During an investigation I was conducting.”

“A
murder
investigation?”

Oh, dear. “Yes, someone she knew had been killed.”

Big eyes again. “Then this is the
second
murder Kelly's been involved in?”

“She's about as ‘involved' as you are. Now I must be going. Thanks for your time.”

“I'd just
love
to hear about that other murder. Maybe we could get together sometime and talk?” She actually batted her eyelashes.

“Why don't you ask Kelly if you want to know?” Marian smiled to take any sting out of the words. She thanked her again and left.

Gene Ramsay next.

Ramsay's office on West Forty-fourth, not far from the Broadhurst, was laid out like a little kingdom. Marian had to make her way through a sort of petitioners' receiving room, where agents and actors and writers and directors were growing cobwebs waiting to be admitted to The Presence. A harried receptionist checked with her boss when she saw Marian's badge and then motioned her on through. Next came a series of cubicles, each occupied by a man or woman talking on the phone while trying to read playscripts or portfolios or the latest issue of
Variety
. The last barrier was Ramsay's secretary, a woman who looked as if she'd seen everything. She ordered Marian to go in.

The private office that Marian entered had been designed with naked intimidation in mind. Chairs and low tables had been arranged in a way that forced the visitor to travel a long aisle that ended at Ramsay's enormous desk; it was like approaching a throne. The producer sat with his back to the window, watching Marian without speaking, giving her the full treatment. When she managed to make the journey without collapsing from fear, he turned friendly. “Hello, Marian,” he said, coming from behind his desk to greet her. “Or perhaps I should go back to ‘Sergeant'? I'm sure this isn't a social call.”

“‘Marian' is fine.” She took the chair he offered as he sat in another opposite her. “You know why I'm here, I'm sure. Did you know Ernie Nordstrom?”

He shook his head. “That's the burglar who was murdered? No, I didn't know him. In fact, I don't think I ever heard the name before.”

“What about Eddie Norris?”

“No. Who's he?”

“Same guy. You told me—”

“When do we get the costumes back?” he interrupted. “And the other things that were taken?”

“I'm sorry, I don't know. Some of the items will be needed as evidence for the prosecution of Nordstrom's accomplices.” She took a deep breath. “And I'm even sorrier to tell you that some of items have not been recovered. The Sarah Bernhardt jacket is one of them.”

“It's gone?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“God
damn
it!” His face darkened, and he worked his jaw back and forth for a moment. “The
one
thing I wanted back … they could keep everything else as far as I was concerned. We were insured, and everything's been replaced anyway. But that jacket was one of a kind.
Damn
it!”

“Maybe we can get a line on it later, if whoever has it tries to make a sale.” Neither one of them believed that. “You told me you were on the board of directors of a costume museum?”

“The New York Museum of Theatrical Costuming, yes.”

“Did that ever bring you into contact with memorabilia dealers, people like Nordstrom who bought and sold costumes and other things?”

“No, I left all that to the museum's director. He's responsible for purchasing.” Ramsay looked at his watch.

“And yet you bought the Bernhardt jacket.”

He smiled. “That was a fluke. I was in Paris on other business when I learned of the auction. My intention was to donate the jacket to the museum and claim a tax deduction rather than draw on the museum's limited funds. But before that, I wanted to take advantage of its publicity value by having Kelly wear the jacket for a while in
The Apostrophe Thief
. I would have replaced it in another few days. The jacket was in good condition, but it
was
old.”

And Kelly thought his letting her wear it had been a vote of confidence. Marian thought back: the list of stolen costumes the wardrobe mistress had provided designated the value of the jacket as unknown. “Gene, how much did you pay for it?”

“In American currency, a little over twenty-two thousand dollars.”

Marian was impressed. “For one jacket?”

Gene laughed shortly. “For
Bernhardt's
jacket. It was a steal.”

“Was it insured?”

“Of course.” He looked at his watch again.

“I'd like to see the receipt,” Marian said, “from the Paris auction house. Better still, I'd like a photocopy to take with me.”

“You got it.” He stood up and went to the phone on his desk. When he'd finished telling his secretary what he wanted, he said to Marian, “Edie's making you a copy. Now, if there's nothing else, I have a full schedule this morning.”

“That's all for now,” Marian said, getting up. “Thanks for your time.”

By the time she reached the door, he was already on the phone, chewing out someone named Manny. In the outer office, Edie the Efficient had the photocopy ready and was putting it into an envelope, which she handed to Marian with a look of wordless reproach—for taking up Gene Ramsay's precious time over foolish things like receipts, Marian supposed.

Two down. Mitchell Tobin next.

“I just used it for correspondence,” Tobin was saying with irritation. “The only program I put on the disk was a word processor.” He was feeling his thirty-two years this morning, but his baby-faced good looks were still enough to permit him to pass for the college student he played in
The Apostrophe Thief
. He'd just gotten up when Marian arrived at his apartment and he was still grouchy.

“Mr. Tobin, how long had you had the notebook computer?” Marian asked.